


If you must mourn, don't do it alone

by rainy_bby



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 10:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15628524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainy_bby/pseuds/rainy_bby
Summary: Bruce is having a hard time coping with Alfred's death. Waller has been calling him non-stop, demanding he assist in the search for John Doe while holding the threat of revealing his identity over his head. Bruce finds he doesn't care anymore. John decides that he does.





	If you must mourn, don't do it alone

Bruce pulls the blankets tighter around himself and burrows his face against the pillows, desperate for the sleep he commonly avoids. The entire night had been horrific, and the morning isn’t shaping up much better. He had gotten up once only to pull the curtains his black curtains tighter together, shrouding his room in darkness. That mere act alone brought more pain than any of the fractured bones his many battles inflicted.  The curtains were a gift from him-an act of humor only the two men would understand. As always Bruce Wayne does not have to make an appearance at Wayne Enterprises today, so he can sleep the day away, or at least he plans to. He makes it until one, still not even close to sleep before his phone starts buzzing repeatedly, forcing him to crawl out of his nest to answer it.  The glow of the phone’s screen is not something he wants in his face today. He shies away from looking at it as he answers the call. “Yeah?”

There’s no response for a bit, and Bruce takes a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose before running a clammy hand down his face to try and wake himself up. He hadn’t slept at all, but his eyes had been drooping for hours. When there was still no response he pulls the phone away from his ear, squinting at it as he reads the caller ID. 

_ John Doe _

Bruce hasn’t heard from him since John had escaped from Arkham. Bruce was visiting John weekly; updating him on Gotham news, such as the media’s “Bruce Wayne and Arkham’s Vigilante” scandal, Batman’s recent stakeouts, Alfred... Truth be told, he’d started visiting John more after Alfred. John had understood, though. John’s always understood Bruce, maybe even before Bruce really got a grasp on himself; he knows how he works, how he grieves. Although he wouldn’t say all that aloud; John insists that he’s happy whenever Bruce makes time for him. It was about a week ago that he had stopped by to see him, but John was nowhere to be found. No one had realized he’d been gone until Bruce showed up to see him, nor had they known how long it had been since his escape. 

“Hey, John,” Bruce murmured, twirling a finger around a loose piece of string on his pillow. Batman has been searching for John Doe, though half-heartedly. In fact, Batman hasn’t been doing much these days since Alfred had passed. If anyone really looked, they’d be able to put the pieces together about who Batman really was. Bruce doesn’t know if people just didn’t suspect or were incredibly slow.

“Hey there, Brucie-boy,” John finally says, his voice making the tension pool out of his shoulders. The nickname makes him smile despite himself, hand tightening a little on the phone as he sits up to lean back against the headboard. Silence went on for about another minute. “I’m sorry that I haven’t-” he starts, but Bruce cuts him off before he can finish.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he insisted softly, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer than he’s used to; Alfred was the last person to cut it, as he usually did. Bruce hasn’t brought himself to do it, and he doesn’t even want to think about someone other than Alfred coming to the manor to do it for him. “Do you want to come over?” The thought of facing the outside world for anything other than work - in the office or on the streets -  makes him uncomfortable. If he had been home instead of out a month ago, everything would be normal. 

It’s silent on the other line again, so Bruce continues. “I can make lunch? I-I’ve only got the microwavable crap, I haven’t been to the store since-” he catches himself, tensing up again. “I haven’t been to the store in awhile,” he finishes, voice a bit quieter than it was a minute ago. 

A smile spreads across John’s face, humming as he glances down at the imaginary watch around his wrist. “I think I can fit you into my  _ busy _ schedule,” he teased, and Bruce wonders vaguely what the man’s been up to since his escape. Where he’s been hiding. Those questions could be asked once he gets here, though. “See you in a bit, buddy,” John declared, before hanging up the phone.

Bruce holds the phone against his ear moments after the call had ended, before finally letting it slip from his palm and onto the mattress with a sigh. He knows he should shower, he probably needs one he thinks as he slides back under the covers. He turns his face into the pillows again, telling himself that he’d get up in a minute.

 

* * *

 

Bruce was definitely the opposite of okay. If he hadn’t seen how disconsolate Bruce was first hand at the asylum, he’d know from the absence of Batman the past week he’s been out. John remembers the day Alfred died very clearly - or the day after, technically. Bruce had kept a straight face on through visiting protocol, but as soon as the cell door closed behind him he  _ collapsed _ . 

John wouldn’t describe himself as a crier. He’s too good at shoving all the bad things under the bed and forgetting about them. Like he’d told Bruce once, around the time they’d first met, he’s a big fan of ignoring a problem until it goes far far away. He couldn’t ignore this though, and this was a problem. Bruce Wayne, Batman - the hero of Gotham crying against the shitty material of John’s Arkham uniform was a _problem._ John couldn’t ignore it but he also had no idea how to deal with it. Bruce had somehow wormed himself almost completely onto John’s lap, the tears streaming down his face making the bags under his eyes pop. John did the only thing he knew how to do and kept both arms around him, chin resting against the top of Bruce’s head as he cried. 

And they had stayed like that for hours. Bruce had been falling asleep against the crook of John’s neck when a rough knock from the other side of the cell door reminded them that visiting hours ended in a matter of minutes. John hadn’t even known what was wrong until Bruce showed up the next day, together enough to explain what happened, but not enough to not end up in the same position as the day before. 

Getting into the manor was a cinch. Locating Bruce’s bedroom in a place with as many doors as his fun house was the harder part. When he did find it, he nearly vocalized his glee, but stopped himself short at the sight before him. The invincible legend, the Dark Night, sleeping peacefully (or as peaceful as Bruce was gonna get these days). John has seen Bruce unconscious before, but this is different. His soul has been skewered, and visibly so. John couldn’t even tell if Bruce was wearing any sleep clothes, what with how positively buried he was underneath the bed sheets. 

There were empty boxes and bins surrounding the playboy’s enormous bed, dust remaining around the removed lids from an attic or storage unit, with contents scattered around the room. 

The items that litter his mattress and floor obviously from another life ago, long before he wore the cape, cowl and leather. On his nightstand several large  _ empty _ bottles of the most expensive alcohol and next to them, Al’s glasses resting on his embroidered handkerchief ever present in the breast pocket of his suits, the initials AP stitched in script calligraphy. 

In place of bloodied gauze pads lay a puddle of his Bat’s soul.  

Slowly padding forward, John mounts the mattress, the quality of the bed hardly giving away his presence. He ponders the idea of letting him sleep; he has no doubt that Bruce has gotten no more than 48 hours this past month. His hand glides over Bruce’s body, fingers twitching before carefully tapping his shoulder. “Bruce,” John cooed, sliding his palm around a firm shoulder. Slowly moving two fingers around Bruce’s right eye he opens the lids. “Wakey wakey…” 

Bruce moves slightly, the eye that's been forced open focuses with recognition. He turns his head out of John’s reach, but only so he could close his eyes again. He huffs against the pillows as he reaches an arm out to slide a hand around John’s wrist gently, holding him there. “Do I even want to know how you got in?” he muses, lifting an eyebrow as he forces his eyes to stay open. The man’s familiar laughter echoes around the room, and Bruce feels the corner of his mouth twitch to form what was almost a smile. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to post this for months now but haven't had the guts to because I don't think my writing is up to par with all the others in the fandom. So, here's to closing my eyes while pressing the publish button!


End file.
